


Firewood

by Metallic_Sweet



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Classic Mode Game Mechanics, Developing Friendships, F/F, F/M, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Post-Canon, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-11-13 22:50:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11195100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metallic_Sweet/pseuds/Metallic_Sweet
Summary: Mathilda wonders when her heart grew so fraught.





	Firewood

When Mathilda encounters Leon, four years after the war, she doesn’t recognise him. 

To be fair, Mathilda hadn’t known Leon well. She had only had cursory encounters with him in the last days of the war, and she hadn’t noticed that he had left after the One Kingdom was established until Celica mentioned his departure. Mathilda had noticed very little aside from what was most pertinent in those days. Clive’s death in the final battle had been so fresh and raw it was a wonder she still functioned. 

The encounter occurs during a brief stop into a mountain village close to the graveyard they were out to cleanse of miasma. Mathilda, with Celica at her side, let the rest of the party go about their business for the afternoon. They’re just stepping into the tavern to ask questions of locals when Celica makes a noise of surprise. She breaks from Mathilda’s side, hurrying towards a table near the back.

“Leon?” she says, not loudly but audible as Mathilda hurries to keep her queen’s back; the figure at the table jolts, looking up and through purple hair with wide, shocked eyes. “It is you!”

The figure sits up. Pushes his hair out of his eyes. He blinks rapidly as he looks at Celica, to Mathilda, and back to Celica again. Celica beams. It’s the happiest that Mathilda has seen her in weeks.

“Thank the Mother,” Celica says as Leon stands up; his gear is well-worn, and he still hadn’t said a word. “It’s been so long, and you left so quickly.”

“Your highness,” Leon says, and it’s very low and gravely, like he isn’t used to speaking, “I…” 

“Are you traveling alone?” Celica asks, and the brashness is a new aspect of her personality; she’s had to learn how to push ahead in court. “What brings you here?”

Leon stares at her. He doesn’t appear threatening. Rather, his body language radiates discomfort and confusion. The silence stretches just long enough to be comfortable before Mathilda steps forward. She rests her hands on her hips. Leon looks at her. Blinks in recognition. He looks like someone clinging to life merely out of habit. 

Mathilda knows that look. 

Knows how to address it.

“Master archer,” she says, official and cold and bland, “are you available for hire?”

 

Leon ends up accompanying them to clear out the graveyard.

He doesn’t accept money for it. The concept of being paid by Celica seems to personally offend him, which is the first emotion aside from discomfort and confusion that they manage to get out of him. When he joins them in the morning for the ride out, his horse and its gear is in excellent condition as are his weapons. Mathilda guesses that his worn gear and overgrown hair are due to the recent repairs and replacements he must have done. 

“Has business been good?” she asks after falling back slightly from Celica to ride beside him.

He glances at her. Sideways and to the right. It’s a motion that she’s used to seeing a lot of archers take. Looking far away seems natural to them, but when their focus needs to be close by they have a habit of tilting as if they’re sighting still. 

“Passable,” he says, and his voice is smoother, probably due to talking more since Celica accosted him.

Mathilda nods. She keeps her focus slightly off his face, directed towards the set of his horse’s left ear. Leon breathes out more fully. His next breath is deeper. Less tense. 

“It can’t be easy,” she says, aware that Celica is listening to them even as she talks to their front scout, “working alone as an archer.”

Leon regards her. Unreadable. His face is one that seems like it’s unused to expression. He can’t be much younger than Mathilda, but there are no ghosts of lines by his eyes or mouth or even around his nose. 

“This job is to my liking,” he says, looking away and frontward; he stares through Celica’s shoulders. “My horse and I are used to gargoyles.”

As it turns out, the graveyard is infested with terrors and gargoyles. Mathilda is occupied slowly whittling down their defenses so that Celica can get through to the summoner and purify the area. Occasionally, an arrow soars overhead and a gargoyle on the fast approach falls out of the air. There’s the faint sound of laughter once it hurts the ground, dissipating in noxious mist and dust. Mathilda glances back just long enough to see Leon, astride his horse and already notching another arrow. He doesn’t look at her, but she can see his expression.

It’s a very dark smile.

It is not a grimace. There’s an air of cold amusement to it. It does not denote madness. There’s no pleasure in the way Leon sights his next quarry and draws his bow. As a hired mercenary, he doesn’t take orders from Mathilda or Celica, so he moves as he pleases. He goes voluntarily to the aid of those in need, whether it’s because they’re being ganged up on or their strikes have just missed the mark. He only turns his attention back to himself if something gets close enough to definitely be a threat. 

Mathilda, as she defends Celica’s back as she takes on the summoner, can’t help but think:

_I know what it’s like to live like that._

 

Celica convinces Leon to come back to the capital with them.

“We need experienced archers,” she says, playing on Leon’s sense of duty to keep him in the conversation. “As you noticed, we traveled here without one, hoping for the best.”

Leon shifts. He twists the reigns of his horse. His horse doesn’t move at all. Nervous movement from its rider must not be an unusual occurrence. 

He must have taught himself to ride, Mathilda realises. No trained rider would do anything like that atop a horse.

“What of Python?” he asks. 

Celica looks down. Mathilda breathes in, deep and steadying. Leon breathes in, too. What little colour his skin keeps goes.

“Ah,” he says, very softly. 

He breathes out. Shifts on his horse. He looks away from them and down into his horse’s mane. His fingers twist and untwist on the reins. 

“There,” he says, and it’s rough and strained, like it hurts him to speak, “really are no others?”

Celica lifts her head again. Straightens her shoulders. She smiles. Folds her hands before herself. Her countenance in that moment is so regal and queenly that it steals Mathilda’s breath away. 

“Even if there were,” she says, calm and sweet and ringing, “I would be grateful for your assistance, old friend.”

Leon’s head snaps up. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He clutches the reins of his horse like he may fall off.

The look in his eyes:

It is like watching someone die.

 

Lukas greets them at the gate when they return to the castle. He lets Celica embrace him, and he clasps shoulders with Mathilda. When he catches sight of Leon, who lingers behind them gazing about the gate and grounds with an archer’s eyes, he jolts. Stands abruptly at attention, shifting his hand on his spear.

“Leon,” Celica calls.

It makes Leon look back to them. To Lukas. He freezes, eyes sighting the spear with the pinpoint hyperfocus of a man on the battlefield. Mathilda remembers only then that Lukas’ valuable steel spear once belonged to one of Celica’s companions:

Valbar.

“Ah,” Leon says; he doesn’t dismount his horse; from the return of that rough tone he seems to adopt when he’s taken aback, he wouldn’t be able to do so with any manner of grace. “Lukas.”

“Leon,” Lukas says; he sucks in a breath and, to Mathilda’s surprise, bows his head. “I am glad to see you. I never got to thank you for letting me have Valbar’s gear.”

Leon shuts his eyes. At her side, Celica watches them. Hands clasped and eyes soft and knowing. Sympathetic and watchful in such a way only a queen can be. Mathilda has the strong urge to look away. She feels like a voyeur. 

“There,” Leon starts, and it snags; he coughs. “There is nothing to thank me for. Valbar… It was little use to him then.”

Lukas looks up only to incline his head again. Very briefly, though. The rest of the party that’s been traveling with them are fully dialed in to the conversation. Mathilda senses that making any more of a public display might spook Leon off of them for good, even with Celica present.

It is very easy to spook Leon. He has high tolerance, which is admirable. He never completely backs down, and he speaks easily about the few topics he is comfortable with: his work, his horse, what he’s seen in recent times around the Kingdom. He’s incredibly well-travelled, and he describes the state of the fledgling desert country under the control of former members of Celica’s party with turns of phrases that add such colour even Mathilda, in her perpetual grimness, finds herself smiling.

“I’m glad that to hear how they’re all doing well,” Celica says over dinner with her and Alm in the private audience room off the main hall. “We exchange letters and messengers, but that is business.”

“They handle themselves well,” Leon murmurs, “even in the hideous heat of that place.”

On all other topics, especially when the conversation strays into personal territories, he struggles with words. He gets them out to answer Celica and Alm’s questions, but it’s in the rough tone that Mathilda now recognises. It’s the voice of someone who has something integral injured within them. Mathilda can tell, from the way Celica’s eyes dim during these exchanges, that he wasn’t always like this. 

It reminds Mathilda of things she would rather forget.

But she has to face it, if only because it has been agreed that Leon will be under her command for an undefined amount of time. She waits until they are completely alone while she assists Celica in preparing for bed in the bath. 

“My lady,” Mathilda says with no small amount of hesitance, pausing in her brushing of Celica’s hair, “was the master archer tortured during the war?”

Celica looks back at her, surprised. She starts to open her mouth before comprehension dawns in her eyes. She shuts her mouth. Turns her head forward again. She looks down in the bath. At her hands beneath the water. 

“Not to my knowledge,” she says, very lowly; “He is like Python, if you understand.”

Python, who fought so hard and well. Python, who was once so flippant and sly. Python, who lived as a shell in Forsyth’s stead and died in a blaze of glory. Mathilda had felt so much for him. She had also viciously, secretly envied him. To have the freedom to die—

A touch. Fingers to cheek. Celica has turned to her. She gazes up, her touch gentle and soft. Mathilda’s cheeks are dry, but her queen knows the truth:

Inside, Mathilda cries.

“That’s why I want him here,” Celica says, and her lips are soft against Mathilda’s bowed head; she holds her Lord Knight close and secure. “I’m not going to let anyone else go off to die.”

 

She had dreams for her life with Clive.

Granted, they weren’t well-formed dreams. They had grown up together, but they hadn’t fallen in love until she, Clive, and Fernand were speaking seriously of founding what would become the Deliverance. There wasn’t much time to think about the future when the present was so fraught and bloody, haunting even the short kisses and touches they were able to share.

Her dreams, therefore, had been simple. Outlines more than fully fledged ideas. She had imagined herself as a bride, holding Clive’s hands as they were joined together forever in the light of the Mother. She had wondered if they would have children, and the notion had appealed to her, although she couldn’t imagine when. She’d thought often on whether or not she would stay on the battlefield or if she would eventually keep house and estate, or if she and Clive would both work in court to defend their ideals. There had seemed to be so many possibilities, and they had entertained her in those horrible days held captive and fearful of fate. 

She never dared to imagine what would happen if Clive died. It had never been her nature to be pessimistic, and, especially once they were reunited, the very notion was soul-crushing.

So, when it happened, Clive diving in front of a spell that would have killed Alm, Mathilda was not prepared at all.

 

Leon attends morning exercises when Mathilda returns to normal duties two days later. 

He doesn’t participate. He lingers in the shadow of the small patch of trees that border the practice field astride his horse. Someone has seen fit to give him new boots, and he has also been provided with the standard gear of the Brotherhood, although he’s foregone the helmet and armour. They’re not designed for archers. Python had his own set, and there aren’t any mounted archers currently in their ranks. Mathilda nods to Leon when their eyes meet at the end of practice and rides over to him.

“What do you think?”

He breathes in. Out. There’s shadows under his eyes, which means he’s not adjusting well to the castle. Lukas had mentioned he’d shown Leon to private lodgings in the southern wing, which means he should be materially comfortable. Mathilda can sympathise, though. After years of being alone and being left alone, it must be strange to be surrounded by so many people eager to interact.

“I knew,” Leon says, quiet but smooth, “the Brotherhood was modest in size, but I am surprised that there are so few mages and archers.”

“Mages and archers of talent are difficult to come by,” Mathilda says, dismounting from her horse and stretching to relieve her back. “Do you have talent in magic?”

Leon’s lips twitch. He looks down. Lifts his left hand. He turns it palm up, twisting his fingers in the familiar motion of spell summoning. A weak flame flares up above his palm as he breathes out. It nearly disappears as he draws a new breath. He shakes his hand out with an exhale, lips twitching again. Rueful.

“That’s it,” he says, matter of fact.

“It’s better than I can do,” Mathilda says, matching his tone. “I’ve only ever managed to singe my skirts.”

To her surprise, Leon chuckles. It doesn’t move his face much, but it settles his shoulders to perhaps the most relaxed she’s seen him. He flexes his fingers absently.

“If my parents had known,” and he finally smiles, small and downcast, almost shy, “they would have offered me to Duma. Things happen for a reason, I suppose.”

Mathilda breathes in. Out. Leon looks up. For a moment, they regard each other. He doesn’t drop the smile. Facing forward, it’s no less than what it was before. It gives a lot away.

“Yes,” she says, quiet and smooth, “I suppose.”

 

Lukas is waiting in Mathilda’s study when she returns to the castle for the evening. He’s in full court regalia minus the heavy ceremonial shoulder pauldrons that he only wears for the most formal occasions. He regards her as she crosses the room to seat herself at the desk through cool, heavy-lidded eyes.

“What is it?”

He blinks. Doesn’t move otherwise. His arms rest heavily on the arms of the chair, hands curved and wrists resting on the ends. Mathilda throws her skirts up over her knees so that she can prop her feet up on the rest that she keeps under the desk. It’s only after she’s settled that Lukas responds.

“Alm was watching practice today,” he says, which isn’t unusual. “He was interested to see you and Leon sparring.”

Mathilda sighs. Reaches out to pick up the first of the papers and correspondence that have accumulated over the past several weeks. Letters from her parents stare at her immediately. She is glad to have the excuse to look away and back to Lukas.

“So long as he remains in the Queen’s employ, I need to know the full extent of his skills. We are sorely lacking in what he specialises in, and we are lucky that he is so skilled, but he cannot be everywhere at once.”

Lukas nods. He looks away towards the window. He’s not actually seeing anything out of it. Even if it wasn’t dark, he wouldn’t be able to. About a year ago, he informed Mathilda that his eyesight has gone bad. Not nearly enough that his role on the field needs to be changed, but he can’t see faces clearly at the end of the great hall, let alone anything detailed out a window on the third floor. 

“The Queen is very happy to have found one of her companions,” he says, low and more than a little sad. 

Mathilda hums. “You worry that she sees someone that may no longer be there.”

He looks back. He’s grown bulkier in the past few years due to the weight of his armour. He’s still somewhat leaner than most knights, but his strength is obvious even in the generous cut of court robes. 

A half-smile stretches his lips.

“We are not the same as we once were.”

It’s true. Mathilda breathes in. Out. She looks down. Back at the letters in her hands.

She can feel the ghost of a kiss to her brow. Celica, last night. 

Clive, in her dreams.

“The Queen knows,” she says, breaking the seal on the first letter to see her mother’s handwriting.

Lukas sighs. Mathilda stares at the letter. Greetings. Talk of home. Inquiries towards marriage. She sets the letter on her desk. Heavy in heart and hand.

Life must continue on.

 

During the war, they burned the dead. 

It was to prevent them from coming back beneath the hand of a sorcerer. There was no worse fate that Mathilda could imagine: to face a loved one, senseless and rotting, and be forced to slay them or die herself. She had known that Clive would have done the same for her if he was in her place. He would have seen her off into a proper rest when she fell. 

It was customary to strip the dead of their armour, boots, and weapons. Sometimes they carried letters or books on them, and those would be kept if possible to send to family if such people were known. Items useful for battle, though, were passed onto those who needed it immediately because it was wartime, and the dead would not miss them. 

The dead are dead, and they should stay that way. 

It is the duty of the living to carry their dreams.

 

Mathilda is completely unsurprised to observe Lukas and Leon forming a friendship.

In skirmishes, Lukas’ defensiveness and close-range attacking power meshes well with Leon’s quick movements and far shots. Mathilda pairs them together because Leon’s eyesight makes up for Lukas’ primary weakness when they are traveling. It leaves them time to learn each other’s moods and habits. Neither of them are particularly talkative: Lukas his usual strict self and Leon quiet when he isn’t spoken to. It’s almost amusing, watching them work in almost complete silence. 

As time passes, they become more friendly. Leon lingers less on the edges, pulled into conversation not just because of obligation to Celica and Mathilda as his queen and commander but because Lukas occasionally turns to him for his insight and opinion. Leon seems to get Lukas’ humour, which is sharp and more than a little dark. He never laughs fully, but he smiles, small and a little soft, and looks away.

Leon, Mathilda comes to understand, is a soft person at heart. He’s gentle and doting on his horse, and, after a couple of soldier recruits show themselves not completely inept with a bow, he trains them with an exacting but kind hand. Their supplies of bows is limited, so there are not many that Leon can instruct at a time. That will be remedied eventually when they get access to a reliable source of iron. It gives him time to get used to the idea of teaching.

“I became a soldier by choice,” he admits one rare evening that Mathilda, Lukas, Celica, and Alm all are dining together. 

“With a friend, right?” Celica prompts, easy as rain but eyes very focused.

“Yes,” Leon says; he misses her look because he’s puzzling over the silverware; it occurs belatedly to Mathilda that a fish fork is not something Leon has likely had much experience encountering. “He was attracted by the promise of travel and regular rations. We did get to travel.”

They don’t delve deeper into the subject. Leon, from the way he tracks food with his eyes and is always aware of how much they have when on expeditions, obviously comes from a background where food was scarce. He isn’t like Boey, who will eat anything and enjoy it, but he doesn’t complain beyond a grump if meals need to be skipped or if dinner is just hard ration bread and hot water to soften it. 

Mathilda deeply respects this. It is a quality that she herself lacks. The times she survived on rations are few and far between, and her keenest memory is of her time in captivity. Unless it is absolutely necessary, Mathilda would rather forego food instead of eating a meal of rations. It is a rare concession to her personal weaknesses. 

There are many other ways that Mathilda is weak, but at least this is one thing she has control over.

She does not have control over how life moves on around her.

She feels this most unhappily when Celica announces that she and Alm are expecting in the early winter. 

Mathilda, as well as Lukas, Leon, and Clair when she had visited several weeks before, had suspected. Celica hadn’t been as active in practice and had spent more time alone outside of official duties. She hadn’t called on Mathilda nor Clair to attend to her before bed for a couple of months, only apologising for not feeling well. Alm had mumbled and blushed when Lukas brought the subject up, so it hadn’t been publicly pursued. 

So, for them, the announcement is a relief. 

“A spring child,” Celica says, and the way that she beams is only matched by the way Alm is unconsciously standing straighter than he does off the battlefield at her side. “Won’t it be wonderful?”

It will be. The court nearly explodes in excitement. The town will be the same, once word spreads. An heir, they crow. Nothing makes a kingdom feel more secure than the promise of a royal lineage.

“We didn’t,” Celica says, once she and Mathilda are alone together in the bath after the announcement ceremony and the associated pomp and circumstance is carried out, “intend for it to be so soon.”

“It’s not that soon,” Mathilda says, massaging Celica’s feet beneath the water. 

Celica sighs. She looks down and slightly to the side, away from Mathilda. Her body only shows hints of the changes it is undergoing. 

“We had hoped to wait,” she says, so low, “until the kingdom was a little bit more stable. I’m sorry. This will burden you more.” 

Mathilda swallows. Looks up. She watches the moon through the skylight above the bath. Next to her, Celica shifts. Takes her feet back as she twists to pick up her wash cloth. She hums a little, the soft, liturgical songs she spent her adolescence surrounded by. Even without looking at her, Mathilda has come to know her so well that she can see in her mind’s eye how Celica looks when bathing. Graceful, purposeful movements. Long, slender limbs. Oddly, unearthly in how unscarred she is. Alm once said that she was so beautiful that the Mother would have wept in jealousy. Mathilda agrees.

Quietly, secretly, Mathilda wonders when her heart grew so fraught.

Unusually, she hears voices as she makes her way to her quarters after she sees Celica off to bed. Lukas and Leon's voices filter out from the ajar door to the sitting area they usually use for informal meetings. Even from a distance, Lukas' voice sounds strange. As Mathilda moves a bit closer, glad to be wearing the soft cloth shoes of late evening wear, she realises that they must be deep in their cups.

"It's all good for morale," Leon says, louder than he ever is sober; there's a pointed tone to his voice. "They are no longer youths, and if the child survives its first year, we will have a viable heir."

"You know them," Lukas says, and it's sincerely angry, which stops Mathilda in her careful creep along the opposite wall to try and avoid listening to the conversation. "They are not going to leave the field. Who is going to raise the child?" 

The sound of ceramic scraping on wood. More of whatever they're drinking being poured.

"Someone they trust," Leon says, and it is a very reasonable statement, except, "so I guess us."

"Leon," Lukas says, very forceful and almost loud enough to be heard beyond the corridor, " _who_ among us is qualified to care for a babe let alone one such as this?"

A long pause. Mathilda glances down the hall. She wonders if she could slide down without making any audible noise.

"I," Leon says; it makes Mathilda freeze; the hair on the back of her neck stands up; "I wish..."

Lukas makes a noise. Almost a laugh. More like a sob.

"Drinking was a mistake," he says, wet and shaky. "Here... Where's the cork..."

Mathilda slides away as they start moving around, cleaning up whatever mess they've likely made. She gets back to her quarters before they emerge from the sitting room, still speaking too loudly and moving unevenly as they head to their own rooms. 

Standing in the middle of her office, her hands on the tie of her evening robe, Mathilda looks up. At the ceiling.

She breathes.

 

As a little girl, Mathilda had wondered what her children would look like. Back then, it was a poorly informed dream, encouraged by gifts of dolls and lady lessons. By the time she was old enough to truly consider it, she was in armour, and there were much more pressing thoughts than what an imaginary offspring would be.

Maybe if she and Clive had had more time, she would have had more thoughts. But, as with all things, that is not the case.

Mathilda will never have children. She doesn’t want them. A child would only take away from her far more important role as the commander of the Brotherhood of Knights. It would only remind her of Clive, and how it isn’t his. Still, her choice is selfish. She is the last of her house. The family line will cease with her as her father and mother have declined to name another heir. Mathilda plans, once they pass, to will the entirety of the estate and its holdings to the crown. 

“They are beautiful lands,” she says, while she and Leon sit together astride their horses on the way back from a successful expedition to support the establishment of a new trade route. “We grow oranges, and the trees are flourishing these past two seasons.”

Leon smiles. He’s been doing that more lately. His relationship with Lukas, which is strengthening as they work closely to establish defensive formations for fledgling archers, has been good for drawing him out. Or, perhaps, giving him a place to grow into someone new. 

“Hopefully it will remain an orange orchard,” he says before his smile tilts slightly as it is prone to, softening his previous words. “It will be a beautiful addition to the crown’s holdings.”

Mathilda nods. She isn’t sure if she will ever know the person that Leon was when Celica knew him and Valbar, but this Leon is a consciously glass half-empty person. He isn’t able to control it, but he makes valiant and consistent effort to soften his words so that he is never cruel. It reminds Mathilda of how Lukas, with his strict and blunt personality, often comes across as cold. He’s gotten better about it, but he is likely always going to be rigid in his bearing.

Lukas meets them at the main gate in his full armour and looking faintly harried. Behind him, the preparations for the presentation of the new princess is very much underway with two days to go. Mathilda thinks the last time she saw so many people running about like this was when Alm and Celica were wed.

“Thank the Mother you got back in good time,” he says as Mathilda hands her horse off and Leon unbuckles his extra quiver. “I am at my wits end.” 

It takes all the time of turning in their weapons to become absorbed into the preparations. The piles of papers on Mathilda’s desk must wait: her bodice for the dress she was going to wear to court for the princess’ presentation has come back from the tailour too small. 

“Everything came in last year’s measurements,” Lukas groans when he comes by with a set of scrolls. “Here, let me get it to Clair, she’ll know what to do.”

Clair shows up late that evening with the adjusted bodice, puffy cheeks and eyes from lack of sleep, and, unsettlingly, looking extraordinarily more like Clive than ever before because she’s cut her hair. Her smile goes a little lopsided at the expression on Mathilda’s face.

“Gray likes it,” she says lightly as she hands Mathilda the bodice; her eyes sober as she takes her hands back. “I like it, too.”

Mathilda swallows. Nods. Clair’s shoulders relax. The gentle look in her eyes—

“Call on me tomorrow. I’ll help you dress.”

The court fashion this year favours whites and only hints of colour for women. The bodices are low cut and highly laced across the belly. It is possible for Mathilda to dress herself, but having another’s hand, especially someone like Clair who is not so much smaller than her, is soothing now that Celica won’t be in full court fashion until she is no longer breast-feeding. They do each other’s hair and make up their faces with Clair’s venerable kit. They use Mathilda’s perfume, which Clair recognises with a nostalgic sigh.

“Orange flower,” she murmurs, dabbing it to her wrists and the dip between her collarbones. “I remember your letters smelt of this.”

Clive and her courtship letters. Once upon a time, Mathilda would have been scandalised that Clair had read them. Now, she’s glad. It means that Clive had kept and treasured her letters as she had his.

They are nearly late for the start of the ceremony. Clair hikes up her skirts and runs to take her place next to Gray and Tobin, who stand not far from where Alm will be taking the throne. Lukas scoots slightly more to the side to make room for Mathilda and the wide train of her court dress, his bulky form not particularly flattered by the massive amount of layers that make up his outfit. It forces Leon, who is standing on his other side, to look incredibly smaller.

Leon is awkward in court dress, more by his demeanor than his figure. He keeps shifting from one foot to the other in the soft shoes, and he twists his hands in the long sleeves of the late spring court fashion. His hair falls around his shoulders, unbound as is the fashion this year for both men and women. It makes his face look longer and countenance softer. His discomfort is even more apparent due to that.

“I discovered,” Mathilda overhears him to mumble to Lukas once they’re all in place in the hall and simply waiting for Celica and Alm to appear, “that I don’t very much like having other people dress me.”

“Oh?” Lukas says, and Mathilda glances out the side of her eye to see them looking at each other. “But you rather like fine things.”

“I like fine things like Ram wine,” Leon grumbles, “not someone giving me orders while I’m naked.”

Lukas chokes and begins snorting on laughter. A few nobles are glancing over in various levels of scandalised. Mathilda can feel her eyes starting to burn in an effort to keep from laughing. 

“To be fair,” Lukas says, clearing his throat to regain himself, “these are impossible to do for yourself.”

“I’ll have you know,” Leon mutters, “that it is perfectly serviceable to do up a corset in the front and then spin it around.”

It’s Mathilda’s turn to choke. She coughs into her lance hand. Lukas’ mouth is open. Catching flies.

The horns to herald in their King and Queen’s entrance save them. 

 

It is only mid-evening when Mathilda withdraws. Moves into the hall. She walks until she is standing in dimness. She takes a deep breath. Holds it. Blows it out.

The press of the celebration, the noise and the music: it's too much. Too bright.

She wanders. Quiet and careful to avoid everyone, even the servants. It doesn't surprise her when she finds herself back near to her quarters. What does surprise her is that the door to the sitting room is open. Faint light coming from inside causes shadows to move along the door and its frame. Like someone has lit a lamp.

Carefully, because Mathilda senses that whoever is in there is hiding, she peers in. 

Leon is there. He kneels on his heels with his back to the door, facing into the hearth. He holds his hands inside of it, fire within his palm. He's using the firewood to feed his mage fire, a trick that Mathilda is used seeing Celica do when they're in the field. For her, it's a simple task. From the hunched, tense set to Leon's entire body, sparking the hearth is taking his entire concentration. 

He's teaching himself, she realises, to compensate for not having their only regular mage available for the foreseeable future. 

Mathilda steps back, intending to leave him alone, only to have the heel of her court shoe squeak on the stone. Leon jolts. He doesn't turn around. The fire in his hands flares, almost too large to be contained.

_If my parents had known, they would have offered me to Duma._

Mathilda breathes out. 

"It's me," she says. 

Leon looks over. He doesn't move his hands out of the hearth. Likely afraid he'll accidentally set something on fire. His hair falls in his face. It reminds Mathilda of how they met back in that tavern two years past. 

“Hello,” he says, very small.

“Do you want me to go away?” Mathilda asks because she isn’t Celica; she doesn’t know how to draw people out of their shells, not without a sword in hand and astride her horse. “I was only meaning to escape the party.”

Leon swallows. Breathes out. The flame doesn’t collapse. It barely flickers. He must have been practicing this for some time.

“No,” he says, even smaller than before; he looks back to the fire, the hearth, his hands. “You would have known. Eventually.”

She nods. Crosses the room to sit in the armchair she favours. She looks away deliberately. The table has a few books stacked on it. Novels that Clair had brought from her family’s library. She and Clive loved to read. It probably contributed to their idealism. Neither Lukas nor Mathilda have much of a head for fiction. Leon is the one who has been reading them. He reads quickly, mouthing the words to himself.

A long time passes. Eventually, Leon stands up from the hearth. It crackles, the fire having caught on the wood and beginning to warm the room. Mathilda watches him out of the corner of her eye as he moves past the armchair and to the window. It’s uncovered because none of them who use this room have ever felt the need to put up a curtain. 

“I didn’t,” he says, startling Mathilda slightly; he is still looking out the window, “have any dreams.”

He twists his fingers. As if to summon the fire back. He doesn’t. He breathes in. Out. Long and slow.

“I told Kamui that if Valbar wasn’t who he was, I would find someone else. I would find love again. But…”

He turns his head slightly. Tilts it. He meets her as an archer. She returns his gaze as a commander. It makes him smile, that small, real one.

“Valbar was perfect. For me, at least.”

He drops the gaze. Stares at his right hand, limp against his side. The court robes fail to give him the presence that his armour and uniform do. He looks younger, especially with his hair unbound. Whoever helped him dress oiled his hair for the occasion. It shines in the dim light. It likely smells sweet. Mathilda wonders if he has the same thought as she does when she’s dressed and cleaned so finely:

Would their lover have loved them like this?

“I think,” Leon whispers, and there’s a snag that makes it strained and so, so sad, “he would be happy to know I’m here.”

Mathilda nods. Leon breathes in. Out. Uneven. She looks away. Into the fire. The flames lap up the wood, greedy and strong. Leon cries for a while. Strained, wretched noises that have been pent up for too long.

She knows, from experience, it will be better now.

 

There are some people who say that the dead watch the living from above. Others say that they go to a better place, and they want for nothing. And still others claim that the earth swallows all, ash and flesh and bone. 

Mathilda cares little for these things. 

Instead, she thinks of Clive, laughing in her arms. 

She carries their dream of a better world.


End file.
